


The Ruler and The Killer

by grislydiner



Category: Orphan Black, Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, violence tw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 03:32:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1413460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grislydiner/pseuds/grislydiner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The exchange of names is more a clarification of identity. You are you. I am me. We are different, despite what they tell us. </p><p>(AU where Helena undergoes Dyad's 'deprogramming.')</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ruler and The Killer

After a round of questioning, a thorough frisk and search, and a light dose of valium, she’d been deemed safe for initial contact. Inside the clear-walled containment booth, the two of them sit across from each other, bright lights above them; their mirror image reflecting from the glass table that sets them apart.

Rather than a polite introduction, the exchange of names is more a clarification of identity. You are you. I am me. We are _different_ , despite what they tell us.

“It’s wonderful to meet you, at last,” one greets to the scraggly-haired double across from her, a false pleasantness in her voice. “My name is Rachel Duncan. And yourself?”

“I am Helena,” the double manages, her body rigid and tense in her seat, as though the question is breach too far. “It is also nice to meet you, Rachel Duncan.”

“They’ve informed you of the details, yes?” Rachel asks Helena after a pause, gently pushing a booklet and a pen towards her.

“Yes,” Helena clarifies, taking the contract and flipping it open. Dyad became aware quickly that Helena’s literacy skills were below average, so the idea of comprehending the legal lexicon of the contract was out of the question. Instead, they tried to have the contract read aloud to her, in all its pages, though it failed as Helena lost interest again. Under Rachel’s understanding, she had been brought in to summarise the deal to her.

“This is an extension of what we would typically provide,” she explains; “This is what we call a convalescence and residency contract.”

Helena furrows her brows and looks up to Rachel, perplexed by the language she uses. So Rachel explains again:

“You stay here and we help you to heal, Helena.”

The layman’s explanation seems to have resonated, because Helena nods and lifts the pen, flipping to the back of the booklet where she’s been told to sign. Though she doesn’t sign right away—Helena lingers on the dotted line, pursing her lips and looking up, past the stinging white lights above them.

Rachel picks up on the odd smirk that twists Helena’s features for a brief moment, but chooses not to press on it. Allowing Helena deliberation—whoever she was consulting—was key.

After a long moment, with her messy—and left-handed—scrawl, Helena signs the convalescence contract, which commits her to a line of therapy and counselling, mood stabilizers and antipsychotics; anything to undo what the Proletheans did to her.

Helena sets down the pen primly, then sets on Rachel. Her gaze drifts down, then back up again, keeping silent. Rachel juts her jaw, remaining measured. But when Helena takes in a breath, stares at her duplicate long—too long—in the eye, her intentions become clear to Rachel: Helena has no interest in what the contract holds. She only has interest in her, _Rachel_ —a walking, breathing abomination.

One that should be dead.

She’s unsure what she hears first—the hard _bang_ of Helena’s chair hitting the end of the booth, or the ferocious shout that rips form the back the clone’s throat—but Rachel is sure of what she sees: Helena using all her force to scramble up onto the table, rapidly closing the space between them.

Rachel pushes back, but Helena is too fast, propelling forward and knocking her to the ground with all her weight. As Helena pins her down, Rachel _screeches_ at the contact, struggles back, half rolled out of the chair, the plastic pressing and numbing her thigh. Helena is everywhere she looks—her greasy, bleached hair drapes down and tingles on her cheek, hands pinning her wrists, eyes wide and wild on her. Rachel’s mouth parts—then Helena’s hands are heavy and tight around her neck, squeezing and pushing down hard to try cut off her airflow.

Rachel scratches at Helena’s hands, trying to pull them away—but Helena’s hands push sharply, making her breath catch and splutter. Her hands move to Helena’s coat, pulling and pushing as she feels herself weaken. In a brief second of silence, Helena snickers at her pathetic attempts to break free.

Her vision’s spotty now, feeling lighter and lighter against the strain, until— _finally_ —a pair Dyad scientists break in and she feels weightless. One of them pulls Helena off her, restraining her arms as she screams and kicks into the air, another yanking back her hair to inject a tranquilizer into her neck. Helena quietens quickly, falling limp in the scientist’s grip.

Swatting away the hand offered to her, Rachel gets up by herself—or tries to—struggling to stand as the room pulses and sways, trying to control her ragged, desperate breaths.

Her hands find the edge of the table, fingers spread across the muddied glass as she steadies. Looking up, she catches Leeke’s sight on her past the clear wall pane. His eyes are set on her, but his head is slightly tilted to the left to his colleague, and he’s speaking things she can’t hear. Not that she needs to hear them. His detachment—the how he remains unconcerned by the attack says it all to her: this was a test on her psychology as much as it was on Helena’s.

She should have expected it. She could understand their desire to observe the juxtaposition of the two of them in such a concentrated way—across from one another, wrapped up in their respective ideologies, trying to accomplish their given goals. Through her dizziness, she can’t fully comprehend their motives. Her mind swarms of all the things they're likely being assessed for; their reaction to one another, how they manoeuvre each other's stature—how they are now, after the attack. But above all, Rachel couldn’t help but compare Helena’s physical ferocity the lack of her own.

Had she been subdued to the point where she wouldn’t retaliate forcefully to a threat on her life? Or _couldn’t_? Was she supposed to—or was she supposed to trust Dyad’s intentions? Her mind dims as she tries make sense of it in spite of her wooziness, instead pushing the thoughts to the very back of her mind.

In the glass between Leekie and herself, Rachel notices her faint reflection, and she’s repulsed by what she sees. She sees someone with reddened eyes, skin shiny from her sweat—delirious and lightheaded, a meek shell of somebody that shouldn’t submit so easily.

-x-

“I’m sorry about what happened the first time we met,” Helena says, this time through a microphone, a thick plastic pane separating them. “My behaviour was… unacceptable. I feel bad for it.”

“You’ve apologised, Helena,” says Rachel, “That’s all I ask for. So now we can continue to progress, yes?”

Past the plastic, Helena can still see where her hands imprinted on her copy’s— _Rachel’s_ —neck, though the pinkish marks are considerably lighter than deep red from just after the attack. She’s unsure what she feels, really; but she knew parroting her therapist was the way to get what she wants.

“Everything can fade away,” Helena responds idly, gaze settling on Rachel, “with enough time.”


End file.
